The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.

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G. Walker ... [and 9 others], 1820
 

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Page 443 - Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Page 145 - His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Page 93 - Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels...
Page 119 - Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain, Torments him : round he throws his baleful eyes, That witness'd huge affliction and dismay Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate : At once, as far as Angels...
Page 439 - To live a life half dead, a living death, And buried; but, O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave; Buried, yet not exempt, By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs ; But made hereby obnoxious more To all the miseries of life, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes.
Page 120 - Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first begins Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire...
Page 104 - To heaven removed where first it grew, there grows, And flowers aloft shading the fount of life, And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream...
Page 120 - Olympian hill I soar, Above the flight of Pegasean wing ! The meaning, not the name, I call ; for thou Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top Of old Olympus dwell'st ; but...
Page 119 - Adam, well may we labour still to dress This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower, Our pleasant task enjoin'd ; but, till more hands Aid us, the work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint ; what we by day Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind, One night or two with wanton growth derides, Tending to wild.
Page 118 - Urania, and fit audience find, though few. But drive far off the barbarous dissonance Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian Bard In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend Her son.

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